


Old World

by Sauou



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 19:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11386440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauou/pseuds/Sauou
Summary: The moment where you can feel the world shifting..





	Old World

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on that moment in L4D2 when you walk out of the hotel, right before the horde attacks..

It’s early morning, just after dawn. And the last of the evening fog curls about the base of the wall, slips between the chain link fence and around the corner of the building next door.

But nothing stirs. The bulbs in the lamp lights remain cold and dark. The windows who face the road barred, intricate metal designs that hint of things long past.

The street is empty, the barest beginnings of a breeze dusts across the sidewalk, disturbing trampled pamplets, the words smeared and torn.

A low cry pierces the air, from somewhere close by.

The flaps of the lime green tent are still pinned open, the low cots inside lay empty and exposed.

An oxygen tank reflects back the patch of sunlight that reaches it, to the mound of clothes that rests against the door to the infirmary tent.

Waist high barricades divide the street from the grass and sidewalk, thick yellow rope that almost completely has fallen all the way down.

The smallest patch of grass, just a few feet wide in either direction, muddy footsteps dug deep into its dry, caked earth. The prints scramble across the concrete, leave a mess of directions.

The door facing the street opens, slowly, the knob creaking quietly from disuse.

The silence is broken as a low growl comes from around the corner, then eventually settles back down again.

The man behind the door rumbles to himself, talking to himself in a hushed tone that doesn’t reach past the wooden barrier, before turning the knob the rest of the way and letting the door fall open.

Delirious doesn’t make much of an opposing figure, dressed as he is in an old blue sweater that sags off his shoulders, and hand-me-down jeans that expose his knees. But the shotgun clutched firmly in his right hand more than makes up for that.

Worn pale wooden handle, the brass of the gun is dark and smeared with what remains of a darker paint job that’s since but faded away.

He steps into the scene, his sneakers scuffing the edge of the doorframe as he moves, slow and smoothly, shifting from step to step as he watches the street. Like a dancer trying to sneak across a stage, his toes touch the ground first as he shifts to the side, keeps his back against the wall.

There is no one else in sight, nothing more alive than him and the faltering grass, and the shotgun shells tink-tink as they hit the pavement.

As he reloads the gun, readying himself for the horde.


End file.
